


From the Journals of...

by SerialParoxysm



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Backstory, Bullying, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It is completely different and im sorry if you don't like that but im warning you now, Like this has NOTHING to do with his canon backstory, Murder, Non-Chronological, Not Canon Compliant, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Notes, Violence, it's a completely different take, the only similarity is that he was bullied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25369873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerialParoxysm/pseuds/SerialParoxysm
Summary: An alternate idea of a backstory that I came up with for the version of Scarecrow that I was using at the time. This backstory is completely different from his canon one. This writing will contain a mixture of first-person journal entries, and interspersed memories from Jonathan's past.Who is Jonathan Crane? Different from what you know.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	1. Entry #52

> **Journal entry #52**
> 
> Roger Madden, Age 6
> 
> _Dad was scared again today. He didnt let me go to school. He said it was dangerus and that bad things woud happen. I dont beleeve him anymore. I think its all the governents fault still. He says it is. I wish I could make his imajinary friend go away. Im going to ask Mr. K about imajinary frends. He was gona give me new books today. Maybe I will ask if he has books about imajinary frends and how to make them go away. He said science explayns evrything so I think there will be a science book to help dad not be afraid. I am almost done with my first year in school. I will be going to 1st grade after summer. I don’t know what to do in summer. I like school. I hope summer is over fast. Maybe there is a medicine to make peepul not scared and I shud make some for dad._

* * *

If Crane was completely honest, he didn’t know what he was afraid of anymore. Of course, he would never get close enough to let anyone know that. There was no need for honesty. He didn’t want anyone to get close enough to know that. In of itself, that would be his warning sign.

He didn’t know how or when getting close to people became a bad thing to him. He didn’t really want to delve into thought about it. It would uncover too many unwanted trains of thought. He knew he didn’t want to get close to people, and that was all he needed to know. Getting closer meant they would learn things he wouldn’t even admit to himself.

He would never admit to an addiction. He knew he had one. Nobody needed to pry into it. It was his own thing to deal with. He wouldn’t say he was afraid of that being discovered. He didn’t want people to know, but it did not scare him. It was a stain, that was all. He didn’t know what truly frightened him. He knew he was afraid when running from Batman and his family. He wouldn’t say he was afraid of _them_ particularly, though. They were only human. Humans are all weak.

If he could put one name to his fear, it was death. Beyond that, he could give nothing. The only certainty Crane had was that he did not want to die. Not anymore.

Something inside him didn’t want him to forget that. _Something_ in there wanted him to remember that it was not always the case. Something had been reminding him of this frequently. 

Something kept putting him on top of this building. He could see only the ugly, tan bricks of a rooftop he had never been on, yet was familiar. Beside him he could hear the loud, mechanic tick of the clock that was displayed for all the world to see. Crane didn’t know what time it was. Below him.. 

The lawns were cleanly cut, even though the cold had made the trees barren. There were no signs of festivity. The entire grounds were empty. Except for him and the wind. Halloween was a month ago. His birthday a month before that. This month was about to end. It had held nothing. It was a pointless month. 

The end of Fall. A fall. The fall. It was not huge. It would not take long. It was just enough. That was one thing he was certain of.

He knew he didn’t want to fall. This body did, though. The atmosphere, the air around him. It all said the same thing. It said he was going to fall. He was going to do it. However much the man he had become screamed not to, he would choose to fall.

Without his permission, his body leaned forward and lost its balance. During the plunge, he regretted it. He hated himself, yet he was right. It didn’t take long.

There was no blood. Yet. Just a dark room. The room was much bigger now than it had been in actuality. Crane didn’t know where the darkness came from either. It had been sunny moments before.

He could see the dusty floorboards underneath him, and knew that he did not want to look up. He knew what was there. He hated having to face it night after night. He would much rather look at his own hands on the dirty wooden floor. He wanted to be able to say they were clean now. He wanted to be able to say that they would only be dirtied after he looked up, but that would be a lie. He had lied.

His hands were no longer in sight. Before him was only a corpse. A shell of a human. Hanging from the ceiling. There was no blood. This was more horrifying than blood to him. Simply a figure of what had once been a man, head tipped at an abnormal angle, and dangling in midair. It was unbearably real. The man’s own weight looked unbearably heavy. He released it from its confinement, allowed the body to slump to the ground as corpses were meant to. 

He couldn’t find it in him to cry this time. As his body moved without his consent, the closed envelope on the bedside table became so noticeable. He knew what the letter inside said. He had to read it every time he re-lived this moment. There was no need to open it here.

He could not tolerate the cowardice of this man. Or himself. This man had once been something. He was nothing now. The world would see him as nothing. He had taken his own life, so he must be nothing. They would see his son as a poor child; an innocent, whimpering bystander. Crane couldn’t tolerate that lie either.

There was blood now. It did not flow as it would if the man were alive, but Crane did his best. He tried to save his father’s name. He was not a coward. He was not. He was a victim. He was murdered. He was murdered in the kitchen which was ransacked looking for valuables. He was murdered in the kitchen to save his son. To save the innocent child he thought he had. The young, brilliant boy he believed he had failed time and time again.

Crane made sure his death was valiant. He made sure that that innocent boy was murdered too. Dragged away to god knows where. The police would never find him. Nobody ever would. It was in this despair that reality finally broke through.

Crane awoke in a cold sweat, gasping for breath. He hadn’t remembered sitting up, and immediately tried to quiet his breathing. He put a hand to his head. He looked around the room, remembering where he was -- in an abandoned hotel room, hiding after their latest escape, alone, except for.. With a hint of panic, Crane shot his gaze to the side, to the other bed holding Isley and Quinn. “Shit,” he found himself whispering to the air, as lightly as he could manage.

The two of them appeared to still be asleep. Good. Shaking, Crane bent over his legs, rubbing his face to brush the remnants of the dream away. He supposed he was lucky to have this dream so often. He used to wake up screaming. That had been dulled over time. He knew how to deal with it now: deep breath after deep breath. He stood after a while, and left to splash whatever cold water he could find on his face.

And with a glance at the still sleeping others, he found his coat, and pulled the envelope out of the inside pocket. The one possession he never let out of his reach. He considered ripping it in half, as he did every time. He didn’t have the heart. Instead, he sat on the floor by the grimy old window, and used what little light came from the streets below to read the letter he had memorized.

He no longer cried. He used to.


	2. Entry #123

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The classmate who offered a hand was not around for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is really short. Maybe I'll have more to add later but who knows
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!

> **Journal Entry #123**
> 
> Roger Madden, Age 7
> 
> _Holoween is coming up. It happened last year two and I think before that. I thouht it was just a day we got candy but you actually do more. It happens every year! You dress up in coschooms and go out at night and get lots of candy. I havent done holloween before but Brandon said that I should go trick or treeting with him so I will do haloween this year! I’m going to ask dad to make me a mummy costume._

* * *

“I don’t get it, Roger,” the older boy started, watching the other slowly pick himself up. Roger was clearly trying to hide whenever he would wince in pain, but when Bruce offered a hand, Roger ignored it. “Why won’t you fight back?”

It took longer for Roger to respond than it would talking to a normal person, but Roger always seemed to have to decide whether or not he was willing to answer at all. “..It wouldn’t matter anyway.”

“Sure it would. You could take self defense classes, and get stronger, and..” The glare that Roger gave him cut Bruce short. Roger was a frail person, on top of being three years younger than the rest of the people in his grade. He always had ratty clothes, and always needed a haircut-- Bruce realized a second too late that Roger would not be one to afford classes.

“W-Well, what about me? I could take classes and teach you everything on my own!” Roger didn’t see fit to give a response to that one, and rather began wiping at the dirt that been smeared against his chin, hiding another wince as a cut began bleeding again. “There are loads of fighting styles that aren’t about strength, you could--”

“Enough, Bruce. We can’t all be heroes like you.” Roger straightened the oversized sweater he wore and began picking up the books that had fallen across the ground. He looked even more annoyed as he began wiping the mud off of a thick textbook on brain chemistry. Bruce had seen him reading things like that constantly, but Roger would never tell him why he had chosen that for his career.

“You’ve got to try, though,” Bruce pointed out, scowling. “They won’t learn anything if you just sit there, and you keep getting bullied more and more.”

“So what?”

“It’s hurting you, that’s what!”

“It looks like it bothers you more than me,” Roger claimed. He finished piling up his books, his back turned to Bruce. He hadn’t even thanked Bruce for scaring the bullies away.

“Because it’s wrong! They shouldn’t be able to do that!”

Roger began walking away after that, and his voice was so empty that Bruce wasn’t sure Roger expected him to hear his words, “It’s unfair of you to think you know what it’s like for the rest of us.”

Bruce felt anger swell in his chest, and shouted at the younger boy, “Maybe I do! At least I’m not giving up! That’s all you ever do!”

Roger paused in his steps, and turned back to Bruce. Bruce felt like yelling all the more at the sneer on the other boy’s face. “My father told me that the wiser man knows to run and hide before he strikes.” Roger’s eyes narrowed slightly as his brow fell to frown. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.”


	3. Entry #124

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at his home life. This chapter highly references and quotes the writings of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving.

Roger had long since come to the conclusion that English class reading was always a waste of time. He became an expert at skimming novels, and analyzing spark notes. He never dedicated too much time to the literature work. He broke down how the essays were meant to be written, he learned how to recite back to the teacher what they hoped to be teaching. He learned to hide that proud look whenever he was given praise. That was the look that ended up as bruises later. 

Roger had his own books to read, his own things to learn. English was put on the back burner. Until this little story came along. This short, pointless little fable. Pointless, because it had to be -- it was assigned -- but it nonetheless caught Roger’s attention. 

Perhaps it was the strange connections that caught his eye. The autumnal symbolism left him feeling warm inside, thinking of harvests, ravens, and scarecrows -- the fact that the entire story was meant to be a Halloween tale. Roger had to admit he was biased towards liking anything related to Halloween, childish as it was.

But it was more than that. The novel began in first person, which made Roger cringe at the first little line that told him so. The only novels he read nowadays were horror stories, and when he did bother to pick one up, it was closed the second the narrator printed the word “I.” It was horribly egotistical, he thought, to assume that the reader _wants_ to listen to the narrator drawl and babble on about their personal injustices. The skimmed depiction of the mournfully pitiful main protagonist initially caused his eyes to roll, but then they froze on a sentence.

_“though he bent, he never broke; and though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away—jerk!—he was as erect, and carried his head as high as ever.”_

A furrow of interest formed between his brows. Was this not the same technique he-- damn it all -- _“Was this not?”_ The stupid story was even affecting his thinking. He put the packet of reading down, and rubbed his eyes, setting his glasses aside. He hated feeling the bumps on his cheeks on his palms, and grimaced, sliding them up so that he would not have to be reminded of how utterly disgusting puberty was.

He was right though, he thought to himself with a pause and a glance back to the sentence that had somehow become underlined. This was exactly how he had learned to deal with Jack, so that he would come home with minimal physical wounds, and only a bit of (obviously faked.. obviously) tear-stains for them to laugh at. His eyes slid back to the paper in front of him, the words slightly legible from this distance. The blue underlining made him frown again, and Roger returned his glasses to their resting place as he bent over the words again.

Without his knowledge, he found himself reading a paragraph above the phrase that caught his attention, disregarding the comic book-esque capitalization of the antagonists name, his concern fell to a pit in his stomach that only seemed to arise when thinking of Jack. This “Brom” had mastered the same techniques of Roger’s most hated acquaintance. Humor, tricks, charm, and attraction, all the things that Roger understood, but Jack _used_. Used like Brom’s posse used them to cause trouble without a second glance from the sheep that claimed to be people.

Roger scowled then. How realistic, he found himself musing, to judge the attractive, athletic boy’s mischief as _good-intentioned_. That thought led him to flip a page back, skimming backwards over the obsession with wealth this protagonist had, to find his descriptors again.

_“one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.”_

...Roger had skipped that. And just before it came, 

_“his clothes bagging and fluttering about him.”_

God, Roger hated that. Hated the clumsy look that had formed as he grew older. 

_“loosely hung together”_

Yes, yes that look. He hated that look. 

_“hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves.”_

Roger didn’t notice his own wrists dragging the fabric of his sleeves against the old desk, closer to his palms as the phrase continued to: 

_“feet that might have served for shovels.”_

He did not have time to step back from these similarities, and by the time his eyes had reached the name of the subject of his interest, a profound sense of companionship unknowingly snuck into his chest. 

_Ichabod Crane._

His name was almost more unfortunate than Roger’s own. Crane himself was almost as unfortunate as Roger, but he was grown. He was a school teacher. _“Authoritative”_ the words told him. _“Elegant.”_ How could one be elegant with this kind of look? ...Could he manage that? Could he manage to be _liked?_ Would he..

Roger shook his head and read further, not noticing the strength of the grip that he held his wayward black hair in. The connections he found chilled him. Roger found himself pitying the fool, sympathizing with him for his addiction to fearful stories. The fascination Crane had with horror, like Roger himself; and with the supernatural, like... A panicked jolt in his chest reminded Roger of his father again, and he looked up at his own ceiling instinctively.

Roger dropped the papers onto his desk, braving the darkened hallways of his home. It was nearly dinner time, but it seemed that his father was not ready for that today. Roger sighed and switched on the lights as he ventured into the kitchen and began to choose from the multitudes of preserved options he had. His father kept their house stocked like the apocalypse was nigh.

Another sigh, and Roger chose a variety of canned soups. They weren’t so bad. And to his father, it seemed as the apocalypse was already here, so Roger really couldn’t blame him. He felt a slight bit of guilt at the small amount of their cash he had snuck away to buy himself fresh produce, but he shook that away with a roll of his shoulders and determination to grab a pot.

It was stupid of him to get wrapped up in his image, Roger berated himself as he let the canned soup heat. He had to remember who he was doing all of this for. He had to remember that his goal was to help his father, not to..

His goal was not to focus on fear itself, but on its causes. His horror novels were a waste of time as well, unless he could put some _reason_ to the terror they induced. 

Roger turned to the fridge and examined the spinach he had bought...It would be good of him to share the leafy greens with his father, he figured, and with a nod he turned back to the soup. 

Because really, he did this to help his father. To be able to create a panacea for him, something better than having to drag him to unreliable therapists every week, and watch him struggle with his demons. No.. Roger wanted to _cure_ his father. It had to be possible.

He began placing the spinach in the boiling broth, letting the leaves wilt and shrink as he stirred. He knew he would be the one to find a way to end pointless fear, to take control over anxiety. He knew this because he could feel the cold determination of duty in his chest whenever he thought of his father. He would be the one to master terror, so that he could be the one to save his father from it. 

Roger turned the stove off, and portioned out his father’s share, creeping with the steaming bowl to the stairs. “..Dad? Dinner is ready. Will you come down?” Roger waited for a few seconds, hoping for a reply. “Dad?”

None came, and he sighed once again. The walk up the staircase felt more tiring each trip up he made. If this was anything like his usual cycle, his father shouldn’t yet be dealing with the worst of the storm, but still, Roger dreaded their conversation. He stood outside his father’s door and knocked lightly with one knuckle. “Dad? I brought your dinner.”

No response. “I’m coming in, Dad,” Roger warned, turning the handle and slowly opening the door. Roger was met with a pair of manic, angry eyes coming from the trembling figure sitting in a chair by the window. It wasn’t really a useful place to be sitting, as the blinds had been shut tight. His father almost relaxed at the sight of him.

“Roger.. I didn’t believe it was you. I was certain..”

“It’s me, Dad,” Roger assured him. “I made soup.” His father’s response was minimal, but relief flickered through Roger when he saw that this morning’s meal appeared to have been eaten. He placed the bowl on the end table where the empty plate sat.

“It smells funny,” his father started, his voice sharp.

Roger hated that tone.

“What have you done to it?”

“Nothing,” Roger answered, as gently as he could manage. “It’s just soup.”

“You’ve poisoned it.”

“I wouldn’t do that, Dad.”

“ _My_ son wouldn’t do that, but you’re _clearly_ not him!”

Roger couldn’t help but recoil mentally. He hated this part too. “It’s me, Dad. I promise.”

“Cloning has gone a long way, but you can’t fool me!” His father looked at the soup, and then Roger with disgust, before peeking out the window. “ _My_ boy is too smart for you. He’s gonna--”

“I have homework to do, Father,” Roger interrupted the man, internally wondering why he found himself losing his patience so quickly tonight. He turned back towards the door, dirty plate in hand, trying to ignore the words of his father glorifying and demeaning the person in front of him at once. It wasn’t his fault. “I love you.”

If there was a response to that, Roger didn’t hear it. Within seconds he was back in his room, his own soup resting untouched beside his work. He didn’t feel much like eating, or doing.. anything, really. Anything besides curling up on his bed. After a second of glancing at his folders of homework, he gave up and did just that, trying hard to ignore the ache he felt inside.

Yet the thick packet of papers seemed to call to him. The underlining he had begun drew his attention, even if he couldn’t see it from his place. He pushed himself upwards, reaching for the packet on the desk, and collapsed back onto the bed with The Legend of Sleepy Hollow in his hands.

He read it through within the night, and fell asleep feeling sick to his stomach. It wasn’t the ending he was hoping for.

* * *

> **  
> Journal Entry #124**
> 
> Roger Madden, Age 7
> 
> _Dad said I can’t go Haloweening. He said its a plot for stealing little boys like me. I dont feel like watching nova today._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as a disclaimer, i 100% disagree with Sir on the importance of English class. A good english teacher changes your life man
> 
> thank you so much for reading!!!


	4. Entry #125

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time, he stands up.

> **Journal Entry #125**
> 
> Roger Madden, Age 7
> 
> _Today I didnt want to tell Brandon that I couldnt do halloween. I tried to look happy so that nobody would ask me questions because I felt like crying when they said halloween. Im not supossed to cry because I’m a boy. They would laugh at my like they did when Tim started crying in class. They called him a girl but he’s not. halloween is in big letters on the wall and when I look at it I almost cry but now I always spell halloween right._
> 
> * * *

“I mean, they never actually _said_ that Brom did it,” the fool was claiming. Roger was shocked to find his fists had clenched tightly. The fool was listing off all the illogical reasons to say that Brom Bones was not responsible for nearly killing a man, or driving him out of a town. Every word made Roger want to scream. He wanted out of this class.

A glance at the clock told him that he had to endure another 30 minutes of this conversation. He wasn’t sure he could make it. He normally could endure foolishness from his classmates, but something about this was leaving him emotional. It was this dumb story. This dumb story that he had read through five times already.

“Hey, maybe he wasn’t wrong,” the loathsome voice of Jack popped up, sounding ever so nonchalant. “I mean, all’s fair in love and war, am I right? I can think of a few people I’d like to throw a pumpkin at.” Amusement swept through the students while utter disgust rose in Roger’s throat. 

“Are you illiterate?” He found the words flew out of his mouth without his permission, and as they did his anger grew into a deep red flush on his face.

The teacher seemed utterly shocked at his accusation, and while half of the class rolled their eyes (as they did whenever he spoke, no matter what he said), this time it almost hurt. Jack only seemed excited, an infuriating smirk on his face, while his cronies’ eyes seemed to bug out at the prospect of someone insulting their leader. Roger did not look at any of them for more than a second, letting his fingers casually turn the pages in front of him. 

“You say something, Rog?”

“I _asked_ if you were illiterate, Jack,” Roger answered, his voice more stable than he expected.

“I don’t think so, man. I did just quote _The Anatomy of Wit_.” 

“Then maybe you should read a little more closely,” Roger snapped. In front of him the first sentence of the story he underlined seemed to glow. He scowled. “Or perhaps you haven’t quite learned what the weight of a pumpkin could do to someone. Would you be so quick to defend him if Crane had died?”

Jack shrugged, making his voice somehow light and somber at the same time, to amuse the class and show off his _sympathetic_ ways. “We live in Gotham. Worse things happen every day.”

“Or _perhaps_ you just like associating yourself with the _hero_ ,” Roger had violently crossed out that word whenever it had been associated with Brom in the story, “so much that you would defend the murder as an innocent accident?”

“Could of been,” Jack pointed out, a jeering edge to his voice. Roger wouldn’t have minded murdering him right then. The thought set his heart on edge as it seemed his words were acting of their own accord, currently. “As I said, worse things have happened around here.”

“Caused by your family, I’d wager.”

That was the instant Roger knew he was going to die. The silence that followed was not the bored drawl of students, but a genuine terrified chill. The teacher’s eyes looked like they were going to pop out of their sockets. Roger almost wished they would.

The threat he expected from Jack never came, instead, he began to whine, melting in his chair. “Ms. Johnsooooooooooon, Roger is saying mean things about my family! This is bullying!”

Roger flew out of his seat, unsure of what he was going to do, but he stood, his shaking hands clutching the Legend tightly, and his breathing uneven. All he could do was glare at Jack.

“Roger Madden, that was entirely unacceptable!” the teacher scolded him once she recovered from her shock. Roger didn’t miss the fear in her eyes as she glanced at Jack. Jack even had the teachers wrapped around his slimy fingers. “You will apologize this instant!”

Roger was shaking all over now. He felt like he was going to be sick. He opened his mouth to say anything, whether it would doom him further, or make him look like a coward, he didn’t care, but it was better than standing there, making a scene.

The words never came, and instead, he did something in between storming out and fleeing the room. The laughter that came from Jack, and then the rest of the class seconds later followed him down the hallways, into the bathroom where he vomited into the already disgusting toilets, and out of the school. He wondered if he was going crazy -- if he was turning into his father in this moment -- because the laughter did not stop, even when he was three blocks away.

He looked at the papers in his still shaking hands. He hated Jack. He hated this school. He hated, hated, _hated_ everyone in it. He hated this stupid story, this stupid legend that was decades old yet still decreed his defeat, his cowardice, and flight from this _stupid_ Brom Bones. Roger couldn’t help but let out a cry of rage as he threw the packet to the grimy ground on his way home. He couldn’t recall the trip there, to this old, broken neighborhood, only a third of the way home, but empty.

He hated that packet. The pristine white and black pages marred by his blue pen, in far, far too many places. He had put notes on almost every line, every word, and he couldn’t even remember doing it. He would go back and look at these notes and instead of comprehending the words, he would find more of them being scrawled across the page, tucked into whatever tiny corners were left. And without reading it all he _knew_ it. And as he tried to stomp away from the packet, bent pages spread like wings across the pavement, _something_ called him back to it.

Roger curled up not five feet away from it, his back against a dirty old store, and his face hidden in his knees as screams and sobs he didn’t know he was capable of wrenched themselves from his lungs. 

“Heya, I found Roger Rabbit!” the wrong voice interrupted the sobs that made his stomach cramp. The sound of paper left Roger silent, terror and rage at once halting the tears. He did not move. “Ooh, boy you sure read the crap out of this. And there was a lot of crap, too.”

“Put it down,” Roger’s voice was cold, if not hoarse from overuse.

“It doesn’t look like you were gonna take it back,” Jack pointed out, the shrug obvious in his voice.

“Put it down and _leave._ ”

“Come on, and after all this trouble I went through to find you again! I had to pretend I was really hurt and everything to get out of that classroom!” Roger refused to respond, hating the sound of Jack walking closer. The heat of his hand on Roger’s head felt like a brand. “Come on, Rog, I’m waiting on-” Roger shoved Jack away, finding his legs shook violently when he tried to stand.

“I don’t like getting my hands dirty, Roger Dodger,” Jack sang, raising his hands with a stupid smirk on his face. “I’m not here to pick a fight with you.”

“Then _leave_ ,” Roger growled venomously, the contortion of his face feeling unfamiliar even to himself. God only knew what he looked like. “And _drop_ the papers.”

Jack laughed. He _laughed._ “I couldn’t be scared of you if I tried, man. A fight’s not something I’m worried about. I’m here for that apology.”

“You’re not getting one.”

“Ohh?” Jack crossed his ankles and held his hands together behind his back like an innocent little girl. “Even if I say pretty please? This’ll get ugly real fast, buddy.”

“I’m not afraid of you either, _Jack._ ” Roger found himself spitting out.

“You should be, you know. There’s a reason I’ve never actually hit you, Jammy Dodger,” he felt the need to coo gently. “I didn’t wanna break you, yet,” That insufferable smirk playing at his lips. “You’re getting too cheeky, Rog.”

“Fuck off,” Roger hissed in response.

“ _Language._ ” Jack gave an exaggerated shrug, having the _arrogance_ to close his eyes while doing so. “Fine, you want a fight, I’ll be sure to make sure the crows can’t find you.”

“Fine by me,” Roger found himself saying, and realizing all at once it was true. 

“And you’ve learned some bravado! Too bad you won’t have it for long. Cause just a snap of my fingers,” he held up the hand with the story in it, before looking surprised and switching snapping hands for dramatic effect, “and I could wipe you _and_ your family off of the face of this-”

Roger was smaller than Jack. By about four years of life, and a life of reading books and writing in journals. But Jack was arrogant. The sudden attack caught him off guard, particularly when it was not accompanied by a vengeful scream.

The sound of the papers falling through the air hit Roger’s ears, louder than the crack against the pavement. In fact, Roger barely registered the second noise. Instead, his fists burned, his knuckles sharply reminding him that he was not prepared for fights. Nonetheless, Jack’s image put up no fight as punch after punch fell onto that face that Roger hated so. It wasn’t until Roger saw red that he froze.

The red was going to touch his story. _His_ story. 

Roger quickly grabbed the beautiful white and black wings away from Jack’s head, and saw his unmoving expression. Blood. That’s what it was. It was leaking from the back of Jack’s head, and from his lip and nose, where Roger had split them. His mind told him how much blood it took for a person to die. This certainly wasn’t enough.

Roger pressed two fingers to the older boy’s neck, feeling the flutter of a heartbeat. How lucky for him. For the moment, at least. But if Jack were to die here, then perhaps Roger’s problems would end. He looked at the papers in his left hand. He could change the story. If Brom were the one to die.. 

Roger looked eagerly down at the unconscious boy, before the throbbing in his knuckles and the sound of a siren in the distance brought him back down to reality. Terror finally struck Roger. Did anyone see? Would he be caught? He looked over his shoulders, relieved that this had occurred in such a poor neighborhood. No one appeared to be around. 

Roger’s shaking hands pushed himself away from Jack, and his shaking legs ran all the way home. He hid under the blankets in his room all night. Every bump and creak in the house reminded him that Jack, when -- if? -- he woke up, was going to have him killed. Roger couldn’t even cry. He read the papers one more time with a flashlight. More blue notes appeared where they could, nearly illegible from his shaking.

Roger waited for the beatings all through the walk to school. He glared at the brown stains on the pavement from the day before, and stepped over them as disrespectfully as he could. Jack and his cronies never came. When he arrived on the school grounds, it seemed his normal attitude of nervous glancing, and self-preservation had become a disease. Everyone was quiet.

They were called to a morning assembly, where the principal looked them over with a grave look. “I’m sure many of you have heard the news already,” she said soberly. “We will be holding a memorial for Jack Napier after school today.” Roger’s insides froze. He couldn’t breathe. Murmurs of fear and sadness echoed around him, and something -- that something that called to him from the stupid printed words in his backpack -- changed his nervous glances into an empty gaze.

He had changed the story. 


	5. From the Journals of Roger Madden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The series of a most important day.

> **Journal Entry #132**
> 
> Roger Madden, Age 7
> 
> _Today I met Brandons mom again and she told me that she wouldnt tell on me if I came and did halloween with Brandon’s family. I really really want to do halloween. Yesterday dad was really scared again and I was watching Nova and the tv said it already showed this one but I havent seen it and it was about_ _dese_ _disepsh_ _disep_ _lying and how its bad but dad was scared and said nova was evil and bad and I dont think he was watching like he said he would. He unpluged the tv and made me go to my room and he went to his and I was really mad!!! So I told her I want to do Halloween and shes going to make me a mummy costume. I’m lying to dad because he didnt let me learn why lying is bad so I don’t know its bad yet._
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Journal Entry #145**
> 
> Roger Madden, Age 7
> 
> _Halloween is so much fun!!!!!!!!! I hid sleep over things in my backpack and went to Brandons house after school. His mom smiles alot and his dad was dresed like a vampyr. He tried to scare us but Brandon laughed and I wasn’t scared either. Dinner was weird because we all sat at the same table and there was more than one thing to eat with real vegtibles. They also did a thing called a prayer. I tried to copy them but I didn’t really know what was going on. The food was good but weird._
> 
> _Then Brandons mom showed me the mummy costume! It was a little to big but I looked like a mummy! And then when it got dark we went outside with buckets shaped like pumkins. Halloween is all about being scared but not like how dad is scared its supposed to be fun scared! There were lots of pumpkins and lights and gosts and skelitons and things. There were also lots of crows. I like Halloween alot and there have been alot of crows all the time. I dont know why they are a Halloween thing._
> 
> _We went around to houses and they gave us candy and some scared us but we always laughed after. I got to eat some of the candy. I really like twix. Now I’m in Brandons room and I think hes asleep but I’m to happy to sleep. I read some of the goosebumps mummy book. In it is in Egypt and he is complaining alot. If I could go to Egypt and see pyramids and mummys I would not complain. Tomorrow I am going to school on Brandons bus. I’m exited to tell all my class about Halloween!_
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Journal Entry #146**
> 
> Roger Madden, Age 7
> 
> _When I came home from school there were lots of people there. They were police oficers and my dad was really mad. The police were scary and asked me questions. There wasnt alot but I started to cry and showed them the candy and mummy costume. The police left and I told my dad that I just wanted to do Halloween. He was really mad and now I’m in my room and don’t feel like eating candy or reading._


	6. Entry #147

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was not always true that he feared death.

> **Journal Entry #147**
> 
> Roger Madden, Age 7
> 
> _ Dad came into my room today. He was feeling less scared and brauht soup for lunch. I was sad because he was mad yesterday but today he is not mad. He said he was sorry for getting mad and I didnt say anything. He got really sad and he started crying and he wished he wouldnt be scared and I told him I would be a doctor and help him. He said he didnt need a doctor and got angry and said the goverment just needed to stop. I had heared wrong before. I don’t know why he thinks the president is making him scared. Nobody else is scared of him. They like him. Dad said he would buy me a new pen soon. I love my dad. I ate some candy after the soup.  _

* * *

Roger couldn’t shake the feeling of being sick. It was constant. In his stomach, something unsettled, something  _ wrong. _ It made him not want to eat (which was a problem because he was already a fucking rail), and he found no enjoyment in his usual activities. Writing in his journal had become only habitual, like a status report. If he tried to read a novel, he lost interest after the first sentence. If he tried to study he found himself swept away by unsettling thoughts.

He was researching brain chemistry -- to cure, he told himself -- and had gotten about half way through his current reading on it. Now whenever he looked at his notes, or any underlines, he found himself wondering how to  _ use _ it. A disgusting fervor would rise in his stomach, which he shut down by closing the book. He had already done the worst. He did not need to disappoint his father any more.

This left him with nothing. He did his school work, he did the tests, and he lay in his bed staring at the wall.

His mind would not stop, even if he did. He felt all the worse whenever it brought him to think of that packet of papers or the story inside. He didn’t want to think of it at all. It brought him to think about Jack -- that made him feel even more sick. Because he didn’t feel guilt for Jack, oh no. His chest burned when he thought of Jack’s demise, but it wasn’t an unpleasant burn. What was unpleasant was the clenched throat when he thought of morality, of his father.

There was something wrong with  _ him. _ There always had been. He was different, smarter, more mature, grown quickly -- and for the first time in his life, he wondered whether his father was wrong about him. Roger wondered if perhaps that didn’t make him special, or better -- but perhaps it simply made him a freak.

After all, what kind of better man would be a murderer? What kind of better man craved to know what those last moments were like for Jack? Was he (finally) scared? Had Roger turned the tables on the other boy, or was Jack arrogant right down to the end? He couldn’t help but imagine the boy was terrified of him.

Roger tried so hard to squash the hope that Jack had been terrified, and the desire to have seen it. That hope felt so dangerous. Like if he didn’t step on it at the first flicker in his stomach, it would overtake his entire being. The warmth it brought would expand to the ends of his fingers and the tips of his toes. It felt like it would rise in his chest, up to his throat, and he felt like  _ laughing _ . 

And that was not unpleasant.

But he knew how dangerous that was. He knew it. He knew that his father would be disappointed, he knew that it was  _ wrong. _ He was well aware of it, and his mind did a wonderful job of putting that seed of guilt into his chest, and the lump in his throat. 

He hated who he was. He hated how the others hated him. He hated that he couldn’t bring himself to make friends, or be  _ normal. _ All he knew, all he had, was this idea that he was somehow better than them, even when they beat him, when they called him names and made faces behind his back when he tried to be social. He was better because none of them had been able to skip grades, none of them had his mind, none of them understood that he had to protect his family. While they sat cozy under the wing of their parents, he had to care for his own. 

And now he could add that none of them had killed someone to that list. (Probably.)

He hated himself. 

* * *

“Roger!”

Normally, that tone made him cringe. This time, it caused nothing but him to turn, face to face with Tyler. Tyler thought he was able to take over the group? That was cute. He wasn’t smart enough to keep hold of it like Jack did, or even close to as intimidating.

“What’s with that look, huh?”

Roger hadn’t noticed his brows come together to show how vastly unimpressed he was. Damn. That would make this all the worse. Tyler stood at the head, the other two of Jack’s cronies surrounding Roger, looking the same as always.. No, that wasn’t quite right. They looked angrier than usual. Where normally there would be feral grinning and glances at each other, each had their gaze focused on him. Tyler’s eyes kept flicking between Roger and the others. He was looking for reassurance of his position. 

“Man, he’s not even doing anything,” Jeremy pointed out, his voice strained. 

“Quit staring, pipsqueak!” The command was accentuated by a shove.

For half of a second, Roger wished they knew that he was the one who had brought them to this. That half of a second spurred his numbed thoughts in a direction that he had not felt in weeks. He forgot about himself, his father, Jack, and simply focused on Tyler as he stumbled. The older boy’s eyes were bloodshot, as if he had been holding back tears for hours. Unsurprising, considering the circumstances.

“..Do you still believe in God?” This time, Roger was completely aware of the words that left his mouth.

“What the hell?” 

Roger glanced at the little golden cross Tyler had worn since elementary school. He hadn’t ever quite understood it, but now he found it fascinating. “Jack is dead. Do you still believe in--”

Tyler punched him before he could finish the sentence, and Roger fell backwards with a grunt of pain. That would bruise, and he couldn’t breathe for a second. One of the others, Ivar, by the looks of it, held him off the ground, and prone for another punch. Roger coughed, but didn’t struggle as he normally would. They liked it when he struggled.

Jack wouldn’t have cared either way, but they liked the power. It was why they followed Jack. Jack was born with power, he didn’t need a struggling victim to remind him of that.. but now Jack was gone. And for some reason he couldn’t place, Roger didn’t mind the idea of coming home with a few bruises. They would never go further than beating him around a bit. That was one thing Roger was sure of. And Roger had killed their leader.. he supposed it was only fair.

The beating made him cry, and left him with a very visible welt on his cheek, all the other bruises hidden behind his clothing. And this time he noticed different words in their insults. The same insults as always, but this time…

_ Freak. Weakling. Bitch. _

Normally, being called a know it all or pipsqueak allowed him to remind himself that he was better than them. Smarter. But now he barely heard it when they called him these things. He had no way of fighting them back. He was weak, and no amount of knowledge would protect him from that. He knew they were right. Only a freak would have to suppress the pleasure he felt at being called as such.

He wasn’t normal, and this time it wasn’t his intelligence that told him as much. It was the burning in his stomach that was not caused by being attacked. He was so glad that he had killed Jack. And that made him a freak. And he hated that he liked it.

* * *

Roger didn’t know what was wrong with him. He didn’t know why it was there. This urge to watch them crumble. All of them, not just Tyler. He fell asleep to daydreaming of Jack’s death, Jack’s final moments of terror, and shock. He wanted more of it. He wanted to watch all of them fall. Everyone he knew. He was satisfied, for now, with Tyler’s downfall.

He didn’t need them to know who was behind it. They could beg their gods for mercy, to save them from their own misfortune… no help would come unless Roger decided to let it. He was satisfied knowing he had that power. He was satisfied when he was pushed into the dirt once again, while he was punched and called names.. he had control, he was not powerless. And there was a part of him that laughed whenever he was attacked.

Roger hated that part of him. He wanted it to leave. It was a monster, set to ruin the lives of him, and everyone around him. It would destroy his father, destroy everything Roger had been studying for. He couldn’t handle that. He would rather his father survive in Hell than have to see the monster that Roger was becoming.

Roger hated himself. He did not know how he could contain the disgusting, freakish desires he held, and as he closed the medicine cabinet, he reminded himself of the combination that would be needed to end them for good, when the time came.

He would rather his father grieve than be disappointed in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returning to modern Crane, with knowledge how how his past affects his daily life.

“Say, Crane..” Quinn, out of nowhere, popped up in front of Crane in the middle of his nice,  _ peaceful _ solitude. “Outta curiosity.. you once said that your toxin never loses its effect over time. Say like.. if you were ta gas the same person every day for  _ years _ , it’d be just as bad the 50th time as the first?”

He refused to acknowledge the glance she gave him to prod an answer, and stared resolutely out the window. It was raining outside, and he could see mist rising from the gutters on the edges of the street. He knew exactly the answer to her query. The true question was whether the truth would come out of his mouth. She turned her attention back to the drink she had brought with her before asking, “Is that true?”

Crane purposefully sighed before letting himself answer. “..No.” He did not look at her, even as she turned her gaze back to him. “That is an intimidation tactic. Nothing more.”

“Do ya know what happens?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

Crane rested his chin on his clasped hands, frowning. “The mind warps. The reaction to the toxin becomes less resistant, and begins to show signs of hopelessness. Post traumatic symptoms appear, as well as--”

“They give up.”

Crane cut off and grimaced. “And dissociate. It’s not as glorious to overcome as your  _ boyfriend _ seemed to think.”

“But you’ve only tested this on people sure ta be confined for life,” Quinn countered.

“In what other context could this occur?”

“Say you... just happen ta meet the same person on the street every time.”

“The effect would be similar.”

“How on earth could ya know that?”

Crane scowled out the window. There were a number of reasons he knew the answer to that, but all of which would give Quinzel a key piece of knowledge that he had kept hidden away from everyone. It was the addiction. The slow burning addiction that makes you suffer the symptoms without it, makes you crave what you despise. That is what breaks the individual; their self-image, self-importance. It makes them dependent, and miserable. After a few consistent brushes with the toxin, a stranger would find themself debating on seeking the torture. And it was something he had not just learned from experiments on inmates.

“...The effect would be similar.”

“So how do people like that react ta normal fear then? If they’re so used to it?”

“The subject either has an extreme reaction to the stimulus, or a stunted one, depending on the character of the individual. The mind.. detaches from the situation to protect the individual.”

Quinn sighed then, in a tone of frustration that surprised Crane for a moment. When he glanced at her, she looked annoyed. “You’re so boring.”

Crane’s voice was tinged with irritation again. “..What?”

“I’m trying ta show an interest in your passion and identity and all that, and all I get is this technical talk?” She crossed her arms, and narrowed her eyes, looking shockingly serious. “Would it kill ya ta show some enthusiasm? It’ be nice if ya could show a little bit of the enjoyment ya get out of all this?”

Something sparked in his glare that he hadn’t felt for years.  _ That _ concerned him. “You incorrectly assume that I take pride in my creation.”

Quinn physically pulled her head back, and he could have sworn he saw her deflate a little. “You.. don’t?”

Crane stood, leaving to confine himself in the room he had been given. “It’s not important,” he drawled as he walked by her, not bothering to gauge her reaction. He was getting far too comfortable around these people, and there was a good reason he had always stayed away from others. He wasn’t about to let that change any time soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!!!! I really hope you like it!
> 
> National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255  
> Just in case you need it :)


End file.
